


Heists, Holidays, and Head Colds

by niennavalier



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (mostly), Humor, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Sick!Len, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9301166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niennavalier/pseuds/niennavalier
Summary: The holidays are right around the corner, and Len manages to come down with the worst head cold he's had in years. He heads to Saints and Sinners to be alone, the regulars knowing better than to bother him.Barry Allen is on patrol and in dire need of calories, so of course the only place within reach is Saints and Sinners. Which he could deal with - there's a table in a quiet corner, and he can just speed through his fries and be on his way, right?Wrong.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kashinoha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/gifts).



> Wrote this as a birthday fic for Kashinoha because we both have this love of sick!Len in fic. Hope you like it (also because me being into this trope is 100% your fault)! Happy (early) birthday!
> 
> Here's the original prompt this came from, so, technically, I guess it's a little late, since this takes place around early-December-ish, and it's, umm, mid-January, so, oops?

    Len collapsed into the corner booth of Saints and Sinners, dropping his head into his hands and wincing at the sharp movement, sniffling because he just couldn’t help his runny, achy, sensitive nose. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his temples to try and dispel the heavy throbbing behind his eyelids. It was just a lucky thing the dive wasn’t a loud place by trade; Len was sure his head wouldn’t be able to handle any more sound than it currently was. And even if a bar wasn’t the most ideal place to be alone, the regulars knew well enough not to bother him if they had a clue what was best for them. No one needed to know that making threats would probably make him more dizzy than anything else at the moment. He risked sniffing a little louder a few times, his sinuses flaring with pain as he did so, so badly congested the way they were, and his nose stuffed to the point he had to work hard not to sound too nasal while telling the waitress he didn’t want anything, just wanted to be left alone.

    No one was finding out he’d come down with the worst head cold he’d had in years, and  _ no one _ was gonna have any clue how absolutely fucking miserable he felt because of it.

    Coughing under his breath and suppressing a shiver made him legitimately miss the Rogue safehouse they’d all been at, the chill, stale, beer-scented air of the bar surely not doing his health any favors, even if he had no chance of smelling any stench of alcohol in his condition. But there was no way he’d be returning anytime soon, no matter how crappy he felt or how much he’d rather be working than wasting time being sick. Not with how he’d screwed things up.

    The holidays were around the corner - just Len’s luck to get sick right then - and all the Rogues were holed up together, partly to prep for a new heist once the season was over, but also partly to celebrate, largely on Lisa’s request, both Hanukkah and Christmas. Len wasn’t overly religious himself, observed major Jewish holidays and rites at most, but he did appreciate it, and it was clear his team did as well, indulging in this one semblance of normalcy. Still early in the month, though, a ways off before any sort of celebrations, so Len had spent most of his time planning, poring over schematics and security systems long into the morning. Spent last night fighting sleep to finish updating himself on the Draycon systems the museum had recently installed to safeguard their special collections, barely falling into bed before the sun rose, his throat itching and head pounding.

    He’d woken up that morning to a partially stuffed nose and a heavy, fuzzy feeling in his head. 

    Which he figured he could handle, going about the day as usual. Except things got worse, not better. At some point, he couldn’t breathe out his nose anymore, the airways just barely clear enough for him to sniffle as it began to run, irritated and making him sneeze. His throat had gone from tickling to hurting as he coughed, the muscles in his shoulders and back had just started to ache, and his head just felt so hazy as it throbbed. It confined him to a chair, or leaning onto a counter, exhausted and curled into himself when he wasn’t pretending to be okay, pretending he wasn't quieting his sneezes and coughs before they came, softly sniffling only when other's backs were turned. Didn’t take long for his patience to wear thin.

    He’d snapped at Bivolo for something he wasn’t sure he remembered anymore, made Hartley cry over something else, kicked Mick out of the safehouse entirely for starting a couple small fires. Was just a lucky thing Mardon and Baez were out for the day and hadn’t returned yet - off his game and facing a pissed-off Weather Wizard wouldn’t have ended well. But none of that was why he’d really left, no matter how much he wished he could say he hadn’t stuck around because he swore the place had dropped a couple degrees without Mick burning random shit left and right (and definitely not because of chills from any fever he had, even if he was sure he did have one, because that was the only way to explain the fog in his head - but it wasn’t  _ that _ bad). None of that had to do with it. Not really.

    Lisa didn’t cry. Len hadn’t seen his baby sister cry since they were both kids; she’d learned a lot faster than him how to suppress it as a response to anger, pain. But earlier that day, tired and lashing out, right after he’d kicked out Mick, he’d turned on her, yelled and said unforgivable things that he didn’t want to recall. And for the first time in years, there were tears in her eyes before his brain had even registered what he was saying - not tears from sadness, but from hurt and anger, the slightest bit of fear.

    The same look she’d had in her eyes when she used to cry because of their father.

    She’d stormed off before Len could address the guilt heavy in his chest, his own spike of fear that he’d turn out like their old man. That he was just destined to hurt and hurt and hurt, even when his victim was someone he should’ve loved, protected. Len never claimed to be a good man, but he’d always hoped he’d turn out better than that. And still, Lisa hadn’t needed to say anything to tell him how much he resembled their father in that moment. So he’d left, walked out into the chill winter night, his cold be damned, ended up wandering into Saints and Sinners because he couldn’t stay there. Didn’t want to be reminded of the idea that he might turn into  _ him _ , might someday hurt the people he loved and not give it a second thought. He’d just needed to get away.

    Len rubbed his hands down his most-likely feverish skin before holding his heavy, stuffed head again, wanting the throbbing to just go away. His nose kept running, and he didn’t bother trying to sniffle it back, letting it drip down over his red and irritated skin, waiting for the inevitable sneeze to come. And when it did, Len scrambled for a napkin, stifling the sound as much as possible, even as the rougher paper  _ hurt _ his raw nose. He heaved a relieved sigh as it passed, his nose still runny as he balanced his head back in his hands, grateful for the dim lighting, if nothing else. On one hand, it didn’t hurt his eyes to keep them open, and on the other, most people wouldn’t see his flushed cheeks or red nose or how badly it was running, dripping closer to his upper lip. Wouldn’t see his shoulders shake with sneezes and coughs and sniffles, or see him wiping and blowing his nose, so long as he kept it somewhat quiet, didn’t draw attention. He could be as disgusting and sick as he wanted, no one around to force him to act like he wasn’t miserably down with a stupid head cold.

* * *

 

    Barry was an idiot. A total idiot. For real, he should’ve known better. After the whole deal with fainting when he’d first gotten his powers, he’d have thought he’d remember to carry at least a couple of Cisco’s energy bars while he was out on patrol. But nope. Of course not. He’d just zipped out of STAR Labs, ready to feel the Speed Force coursing through his limbs.

    And now he was about ready to pass out. That overwhelming lightheaded feeling and...yeah, he needed food, pronto. 

    He skidded to a stop, sped out of the Flash suit, switching it out for normal clothing, before glancing around, checking where he actually was (and, more importantly, where the closest food was). 

    Saints and Sinners.

    That...was really not Barry’s first choice. Honestly, he’d considered for a second if he might be able to run somewhere else - literally, anywhere else - but then then a wave of dizziness threatened to knock him on his ass, and yeah, okay, finding a different place would be a bad idea. Local superhero with access to the Speed Force and still, he had no choice where he wanted to go grab food. Barry didn’t know if that really counted as irony, but he was pretty sure some universal force hated him or something as he shoved the Flash ring in his pocket, sighed, and headed inside his least favorite seedy bar ever.

    The overwhelming stench of beer literally hit him like a train, and Barry had to try not to actually fall backward. Because...wow. Okay, then. Apparently more people just meant this place smelled even worse. He wandered past a pretty burly group of men playing pool, trying really hard to just ignore all the  _ looks _ he was getting. Hungry sorts of looks, like he was some kinda fresh meat, or at least that’s what it seemed like and yikes, nope, nope he wasn’t gonna keep thinking along those lines  _ nope. _

    Instead, he just hightailed it to the bar, ordered some food, and proceeded to try not to look too uncomfortable around the other guys and  _ wow why was this place so creepy why was the food taking so long he wanted out out  _ **_out_ ** _. _

    Oh thank god  _ fries _ .

    Barry scampered away from the bar, refusing to acknowledge the even more eyes following him, because there was definitely an empty booth in the back corner of the building, not a lot of people around, and maybe the universe was making up for dumping him off at Saints and Sinners. He definitely deserved that. A quiet corner where people hopefully wouldn’t be looking at him and he could speed through his order of fries, take off and finish patrol and not think about any of this incident ever again, if he was lucky.

    Problem was, “lucky” hadn’t really ever played into Barry’s life all too much.

    He slid into the booth, glanced to the side, turned back toward his fries...and did a double-take.

    “Snart?”

    The universe actually hated him. That was the only explanation. Because why else would the only semi-safe looking booth leave him stuck sharing a table with Captain Cold?

    At least Snart looked just as surprised. It still annoyed Barry to no end that the guy had known it was him when he'd shown up to ask for help with Ferris Air, and that probably, hopefully counted as some kind of karma. Well, Barry would take that as a plus.

    “Barry?” He looked up, lifting his head from his hands, startled for a moment longer than Barry would’ve expected before pulling on a smirk that just seemed a little too forced. “Didn’t expect to run into you here. Place like this doesn’t strike me as quite your speed.”

    Barry just rolled his eyes. If he were given any other choice of place to be - literally  _ anywhere _ \- he’d take it without a second thought. “I was just…” he glanced down at the plate, having absolutely no intention of telling Snart how he was stupid enough to be basically on the verge of passing out, “...hungry.” Yeah. So much smoother. Nice one, Allen.

    Snart didn’t answer immediately, though, just nodded, apparently appeased, and glanced down with a couple soft sniffles, and Barry took the chance to switch the topic to anything that wasn’t his planning skills (or, admittedly, lack thereof). “What’re you doing here, Snart? Shouldn’t you be, I dunno, planning a heist or something?”

    The other man glanced back up. “Is that what you’d rather I be doing?” Barry opened his mouth, ready to retort - and probably stick his foot in his mouth something major - but stopped himself in time. Because...something just seemed off about the guy. He didn’t know what it was but...no. Barry wasn’t stupid enough to go poking around in Snart’s business. Everything would’ve been better if he’d just not even noticed him - Snart hadn’t seemed to know, or care, before Barry had opened his damn mouth - and sped through his fries and just zipped outta there.

    So with his infinite charm, Barry settled on, “I mean, umm, no, and you definitely didn’t hear that from me, because I wasn’t telling you to go rob a museum in the middle of the holiday season”, and proceeded to shove a fry into his mouth because apparently that was the only way to effectively shut himself up.

    Snart barely responded, and all Barry got as he stared down at his fries was a tired, “Noted.”

    And…Barry was actually feeling a little concerned. Even when he’d gone and sought out Snart for the meta transport, totally without warning, the guy had taken it all in stride, with his usual bravado (and, no,  _ Cold as Ice _ playing that night definitely had not gone over Barry’s head). Even though Barry had his own personal suspicions that “Captain Cold” wasn’t really the same as “Leonard Snart”, so to speak, this that he was seeing in front of him felt all kinds of not right. So instead of asking and getting completely humiliated by whatever response he’d get, Barry just didn’t speed through his fries like he’d originally planned – to be fair, the night had been pretty quiet, and Cisco would call him on his phone if anything urgent came up. He figured he had a decent enough excuse that he’d thought something  _ might  _ be up. That wasn’t even a lie, really.

     Instead, he took covert glances over at Snart, trying to figure out just what was going on, because if this was all some ridiculous ploy, Barry wasn’t gonna be caught off guard. Even after the incident with Lewis and also the whole adventure with Rip Hunter, the Rogues still kept him wary.

     Turned out the covert glances weren’t really necessary, though; Barry probably could’ve just stared outright and not been caught.

     Snart had his eyes shut, head back in his hands, a napkin crushed in his right with a couple more littering the table on his opposite side. He just looked drawn and tired in general, red tinting the tip of his nose. Which explained the continued soft sniffles, the quiet, hitched breaths as he pinched at his nose, eyebrows drawn uncomfortably before he sighed with relief.

     “Hey, uh, are you okay?” Barry sounded like a total idiot.

     A glare was shot his direction, Snart insisting, “I’m fine,” though, yeah, he definitely sounded congested.

     Okay, well, first off, maybe Barry wasn’t a complete idiot. And second, as long as patrol duties allowed, he was staying right where he was. Because apparently the universe wasn’t quite so cruel as he’d thought.

     “You sure about that?” He grinned, not trying to contain himself. After all, for as often as he was the butt of the other man’s jokes, how often did he get to make fun of Leonard Snart? Oh no, he was not wasting this opportunity. “’Cause it sure sounds to me like Captain Cold –“

     “Don’t.”

     “- has a cold.” Barry celebrated internally as Snart seemed to lean more heavily on his hands.

     “Hilarious,” he said between more and more sniffles, a couple weak coughs.

     “Yup.” Barry kept giggling. “You weren’t fast enough to catch the Flash, but looks like you  _ were _ able to catch a cold, huh?”

    “And the fastest man alive can’t get out of this booth quick enough.”

    “Who said I wanted to?”

    “Don’t you have a city to save?”

    “Nope,” he popped the ‘p’... and also realized he was probably hanging out with Cisco a little too much. “Looks like you’re the only one catching anything today, Snart.”

    “‘S nothing.” The congested sniffles that followed just made Barry nod his head mockingly.

    “Riiight.”

    “I’m not sick.” Snart finally looked up, seemingly trying to glare, though a lot of the heat was lost now that Barry was paying a little more attention to the flush in his cheeks, his sore-looking and audibly stuffed nose. Which...okay, Barry actually felt kinda bad for teasing. The poor guy looked like he had it pretty bad.

    “Uh-huh. Okay, come on, for real -”

    “Can you just leave it a...ah…” Snart’s breath hitched again, and he was back to pinching his nose, trying painfully hard not to sneeze. “Ah...a- _ alone _ ,” he sighed, shoulders slumping slightly in relief.

    “Snart, are you  _ sure _ you’re…”

    A small sniffle. A couple more, Barry becoming increasingly aware of just how pitifully stuffed up he was. As if the intensely nasal sound to his words hadn’t been enough proof of that. Then the hitching breaths were back, and Barry was pretty sure about where this was headed. “Ah...ahh...ah- _ CHOO _ !”

* * *

 

    Len couldn’t do anything to suffocate the assault of sneezes as they came, just barely able to muffle their volume with the crumpled napkin pressed tight against his face. More and more explosively wet, congested sneezes that he couldn’t fight against, apparently payback by his body for all the ones he’d purposely stifled, even long before Barry had ever shown up. After far too long, it seemed he was finally done, and Len rested his groggy head against one hand, barely able to keep his eyes open as he pinched his nose shut, stopping the runny drip before wiping clean the red and irritated skin, holding back a wince at how badly it stung.

    “Okay, for real – and I’m not gonna joke anymore – you sure you’re okay?” Barry asked.

    Len nodded, his head stuffed and swollen and throbbing so badly; just that movement was apparently more than he could take. “Don’t h-have,” his breath hitched again as his nose tickled, the sneezes apparently not done with him, and he reached for a new napkin to pinch his nose, more desperate than he was about to let on, “ a co…col…ahh…ah- _ choo _ !” He managed to tightly stifle the sneeze, keeping it quieter than the last fit, even if doing so made the pain in his head flare up with the extra pressure. Still, after wiping his abused nose again, Len forced himself to look up, focus on Barry, and pretend he didn’t sound as nasal as he did while telling the kid he was perfectly fine.

     “Can you just – seriously, Snart, you shouldn’t be here. Pretty sure you have a fever.”

     “I don’t.” Len almost didn’t want to lie, because he definitely  _ did  _ have a fever, one that might’ve easily gotten worse just in the time he’d been sitting there. He was  _ tired _ and a little achy, his nose swollen completely and painfully shut after his sneezing fit, even if it still managed to run profusely all the same. He honestly just wanted to be back in bed with real cold meds and soft tissues and no meddling superheroes. “Like I said, it’s nothing.”

    “But…”

    “What’s it matter to you if I’m sick, Barry? Doesn’t that make your job easier?”

    “I mean, well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy seeing you under the weather this bad.”

    Len took a couple seconds to process that, blaming it on the fog sitting in his head, and opened his mouth to retort, anything to chase Barry away, except his attempt just turned into a string of dry coughs that tore at his throat. Damn it.

    “Hold on,” was all Len heard through the coughs, the moment they started to subside finding a glass of water being pushed his way. He shot a look at Barry - the last thing he wanted was to be coddled - only to get a look back that was some mixture of earnest and stubborn. “Being sick gets you dehydrated. Fluids should help with the stuffy nose.” Barry shrugged and took a bite of his fries, pointedly flicking his gaze between Len and the glass, his meaning clear enough. In all honesty, Len  _ was _ grateful. The cool water soothed his scratching throat, and he’d nursed Lisa through enough childhood illnesses to know how this all worked. He just hadn’t had to energy to haul himself up and ask for anything; that, and he’d wanted to preserve his dignity by not swaying and sounding sick out of his mind all the while.

    “Thanks.”

    “Oh, yeah, of course.” Barry sounded surprised, and went on eating, his brow slowly furrowing. “Wait, what  _ are _ you doing here, Snart? I figure you’ve got a safehouse or something nearby. So why’re you here when you’re sick?”

    “Not sick. ‘S not that bad.” Len repeated and shoved the napkin back under his running, aching nose, in no mood to see how much his sinuses would hurt if he even tried to sniffle, congested the way he was. The need to blow his poor nose was getting worse, too; he had to find a way to get the kid to leave.

    “Even if that were true - and you’re convincing approximately no one that it is - it still doesn’t seem like you had a reason to be here in the first place. I’m gonna guess that whatever place you’ve got is more comfortable than this.”

    Strictly speaking, Barry was right. It was getting cold, even inside the building, and the overwhelming sick feeling made Len want little more than to lay down and pass out and be left alone. Too bad that wasn’t really an option. “The Rogues are there. Doubt they wanna see the guy who pissed ‘em all off.” 

    “Pissed them off? But...I mean, I get you guys are criminals, but I’m pretty sure they’d get it if they knew you were sick.” Len was glad that the kid hadn’t asked for details, already feeling the guilt rise over what he'd said to Lisa, how badly he'd messed up. That wasn't nothing, and Len couldn't forgive himself for it; he couldn't expect Lisa to pretend like it hadn't happened.

    “Doubt they’re gonna forgive me just ‘cause I show up with a case of the sniffles, Barry.”

    “But you’re sick!” Len actually winced at that exclamation. Fuck, his head hurt. “Like, actually sick!”

    “For the last time -”

    “If you say you’re fine, I’m flashing you to that safehouse whether they’re still pissed at you or not.” His stomach audibly growled, loud enough even to register in Len’s hazy headspace. “And taking your food. Lots of it.” Len chuckled at the thought of Mick’s reaction to that, the rant Barry would have to endure, and ended up coughing instead, the small amount of air passing through his nose making it tickle. His breath started hitching again, and he resumed the routine of pressing his knuckles beneath his nose until the sneeze seemed subdued, leaving his head full of extra pressure.

    Except the tickle never  _ did _ disappear.

    He went back to pinching his nose, both against the runny mess and the continued need to sneeze, hearing Barry’s annoyed huff. “For real, Snart? Not like I’m gonna judge you for sneezing when you’ve got a cold.”

    “It’s n-nothi-ing.” God, he really had to sneeze. And blow his nose. Soon. Now. Because his breath was still coming in short, stuffy gasps, his body craving relief. He managed to completely stifle the sneeze as it was about to leave, but couldn't stop the whimper at the explosion of pressurized pain inside his head instead. Eyes clamped shut, he rubbed his temples, as if that might do something against the nearly unbearable headache. Unsurprisingly, with his hands occupied, Len couldn’t attend to his still-running nose, and chanced a congested sniffle, regardless of how it might hurt. Which was a mistake. A big mistake.

    The tickle intensified ten-fold, and… “AHH- _ CHOO! _ ” Len could barely move fast enough to contain the sticky mess, the relieving expulsion of pressure from behind his eyes, even if his nose and sinuses _ hurt _ from all the abuse they’d been taking. He let himself slump into his seat, took the chance to gingerly, softly blow his nose, desperate for even the minimal relief that brought. Before, “...Haah...ah-choo!...Ah-choo!” His body finally took pity on him, the fit ending weakly as he reached for yet another napkin to wearily mop up his irritated nose, the skin burning.

    “Okay, honestly, Snart, what do you need? Lemme help you.”

    “I’m fine.” Napkin still held to his face, Len hadn’t known he could sound so congested, so nasal.

    “No you’re not!”

    “Don’t need help.”

    “But you’re sick!”

    “Not bad.”

    “Sounds bad.”

    “‘S not.”

    “I’m getting you meds -”

    “No.”

    “ - and actual tissues -”

    “Don’t.”

    “ - and you need to rest - “

    “Barry -”

    “ - and -”

    “ _ Fine _ .”

    Barry actually froze. “Wait, what?”

    “If you wanna help, fine.” Len coughed, which somehow made his nose feel more stuffed, made him realize just how badly he had to properly blow it, get rid of all the gunk. “Get me soup if that makes you happy.” Barry grinned, Len glancing up just in time to see that look before the kid disappeared, off to find someplace that actually served soup, since Saints and Sinners sure as hell didn’t. 

    The first second he got, Len rubbed his tired eyes, massaged his forehead, exhausted by the long day, taking more time to just lean on his hands and rest, clearing his throat - now fully sore, between the coughing and sneezing and arguing with Barry. Then he finally blew his sore, swollen nose hard and loud, not concerned enough to care how blatantly sick he sounded, especially as he finished with a sigh, his sinuses feeling just a little less blocked, and infinitely better than before. He rested a minute and repeated a few times, each stuffy nose-blow feeling strangely like relief.

    “Wow, soup was definitely a good call.” Barry stood at the end of the table, having apparently heard the proof that Len was far more stuffed-up than he’d ever admit. A hot cup of chicken noodle slid over to him, and Len hummed as the warm steam relaxed his swollen airways, finally feeling like he could breathe a bit again. Soup  _ had _ been a good call, and as he glanced over at the speedster getting back to his almost-forgotten fries, Len figured that, maybe, this whole caretaking thing wasn’t too bad after all.

    (Even if Barry would force him back to the safehouse by the end of the night,  _ the Flash _ explaining to Lisa what had happened. By the next morning, she'd still be pissed, and would make sure Len knew it, ignoring him for a while and fuming later as was her right, but in the end, she'd cautiously, jokingly check that he wasn't dying - their version of an olive branch. They'd be okay. Always would be. And that was all that really mattered.)

    (Then there was Mick, too. Given the choice between unburned pieces of priceless art and their friendship, the answer was always obvious. Mick wasn't actually that mad, mostly annoyed Len had been too stubborn to admit to being sick, and accepted his apology, ordering him to get some goddamn sleep. So if, the next morning, the safehouse got to be a few degrees warmer via impromptu bonfire, then that was just an extra plus of reconciling.)

    (And beyond that, even if he would be jolted out of a light doze by a knock on the door the next evening, the other Rogues  in the basement planning without him - his “sick day” as mandated by Lisa and Mick - and forcing him up to answer it, well, he wouldn't have it in him to complain. The bag sitting on the doorstep - with tissues, cough drops, cold meds, and cans of soup - and the trail of lightning in the distance just meant Barry Allen cared too damn much.)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the html for a link isn't working for some reason, so until I troubleshoot that, here's the link: http://niennavalier.tumblr.com/post/155779358778/you-dont-have-to-write-if-you-dont-like-but


End file.
